


sometimes the mist falls perfectly

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: M/M, Pre-Series, for:deelaundry, hookup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-16
Updated: 2009-10-16
Packaged: 2017-10-02 13:46:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1993: Columbia University.</p>
            </blockquote>





	sometimes the mist falls perfectly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deelaundry](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=deelaundry).



> Written for deelaundry. Thanks to shutterbug_12 for the beta.

**sometimes the mist falls perfectly**

As James eases his way through the front door of the house party, it's like he's an amphibious creature, sliding from wet-cool fall air to swim through the thumping beat of bass so loud it shimmers in the walls. The furniture's been pushed askew and the pile of CD cases stacked on top of the stereo rattles to the beat. James is late and the party's already in full swing, empty plastic cups discarded on every available surface, some of them pressed into service as impromptu ash trays and filled with butts. He can feel the faint smile on his face, the surge of his blood to the music's rhythm that already feels like arousal. The front room's smoky but mainly deserted, which means the night's moved on to the next stage, pot and hookups and hard liquor.

It's the beginning of the year, fresh as sharpened pencils, and it's been a long time since he's had this. Over the summer he was home, working, going down the shore weekends to burn his shoulders brown and to dive into every saltwater wave. He wrapped his arms around a different girl's waist every weekend, and that's okay; he'd kiss her until the hot wind sweeping along the burning pavement broke them apart, laughing.

James jogs upstairs, and the beat's barely muffled through the floor. There's a pretty thorough make-out session happening in the bedroom upstairs, and doesn't stop when James steps in to dump his coat with the others. He shoves it a little under the pile, to avoid the overflow of any bodily fluids, and heads back down through the music to the basement door.

It's a dark, alcohol-sweaty cave down there; a second stereo's in competition with the one in the living room, and the music dulls into a syncopated roar. There's a dancefloor, a hot mass of bodies; around the edges, guys calmed by the slow blink of philosophy are passing joints around. James picks up a drink from someone's hand, fingertips warm when they brush his. He nearly has a semi just from the promise he made himself by coming here: _no phones_. That means no Danny, and no giving or asking of numbers that carry with them the implicit promise to call.

He's older than most of the guys here, undergraduates in their senior year. The invitation came casually in the hallway, no obligation to show up or to be someone's date, and James knows he still looks that young, or younger. He finishes his first beer and this time gets his own refill. After a few minutes and another drink, the beer relaxes him, heats his pulse. The only lights are a few lamps on the floors, a bronze glow through the spaces between dancing couples, dim enough that James is inconspicuous from his place on the fringes, near enough the liquor that there'll be someone, soon enough.

James almost doesn't recognize him when he arrives. He's been watching the room, thinking about pushing into the music, until his breath and movement echo the other dancers', their bodies scaffolding his. When James turns back to the keg, he sees that the guy's been watching him while he was drifting. He's younger than James, probably too young to buy the drink he's holding. The light burnishes his skin, gleams in his black eyes.

James swallows the last of his beer and holds out his cup; the guy chuckles--James guesses, it's soundless under the music--and picks up a bottle, pours half an inch of something dark and smooth into his cup instead.

Realization's like a sunset: excitement, bright and red-yellow, slipping almost imperceptibly into a warm understanding. James throws back the shot with a twist of his wrist. The scratched, dinted desk serving as the bar seems to rise up to meet the cup when he sets it down. He catches the guy's gaze, holds it, sees the challenging, thoughtful interest there.

Women usually ask him what he does, touch his arm, lean in to watch him as he speaks. This guy holds himself back, shoulders set easily into arrogance, but James can see an energy in his body, a tension that comes out as a smile that assumes he's going to get everything he wants.

James nods and flicks a glance at the stairs. The guy turns with a shrug and a saunter and James is left to follow him, through the press of bodies and smoke. When they get to the main floor the guy barely acknowledges him, already heading for the next staircase. James ignores the awkwardness that comes between agreement and application, lets the relatively clean air wash over him as they head upstairs. The guy doesn't turn into the bedroom with the coats, but the next one over, cluttered but clean enough that it seems to expect them. James hesitates on the threshold, only long enough for the guy to check him out, an evaluating stare. He seems to get whatever is passing through James' mind, because he says, "Eric," and turns to face James fully, his chin tipping up lightly, his eyes lazy as he searches James' face.

He's close, and one step further will have a door between them and the rest of the party, the rest of the world. "James," James says, and his voice is easy and confident, his smile growing, the pause lost now as he's the one to take the last step.

He loses all sense of space in the kiss. The air that separates him from the door at his back, the aura of Eric's heat between their bodies, the shuffle of steps from the bed to the back of Eric's knees; they all disappear into clear, uncomplicated pleasure. James could be weightless except for the grip of his fingers wrapped around the back of Eric's neck. Eric resists enough that James smiles, tongue-traces his lips before he insists again, wanting warmth, chasing the taste of alcohol into the corners of Eric's mouth. Eric grabs his free hand, squeezes his wristbones, and for a second James thinks he's pushing him away, until Eric follows, with all the weight of him pushing James into the door.

God. He's hard. James can feel Eric's cock pressed against his stomach through his jeans. James has been halfway there since the basement. Eric's push drives his arousal higher, desire spreading and meeting the heat of the rum in his stomach, both spreading through his veins to dissolve his bones. Eric dips his head, breaths a rough laugh against James' skin the moment before he kisses James' throat. A groan vibrates somewhere deep in James' chest. His hand strokes down Eric's back and up under his t-shirt, rucking it up; the shift and slide of muscles in Eric's shoulders, the smooth warmth of his skin, leaves him breathless.

"What do you want?" The self-satisfied whisper ghosts against his ear.

James refuses to shiver. He shakes loose of Eric's hold and reaches for the fly of his jeans, unzips them and reaches through the placket to warm his palm on Eric's erection. "Can't you figure me out enough to guess?" he asks, mild with amusement.

Eric grunts, his breath growing harsh as James outlines his cock through his shorts. "Pretty clear," he says, like it hurts to admit it; like he can't forget what James is doing long enough to answer him.

Eric's t-shirt and jeans, James' shirt and khakis, are easy to shed, to stumble over on their way to the bed. James wonders briefly if it's Eric's bed, his room, but it doesn't matter. He follows Eric and kneels above him on the mattress.

God, he wants to run his tongue over every inch of Eric's skin. James has the thin build of too much coffee, meals forgotten, sandwiches bolted during study sessions, daily runs when he's not exhausted; Eric's an athlete, chest and abs defined, his cock jutting up from his pubic hair and all but begging to be sucked. Not that James will hear him say please. Eric's completely at ease, watching James' expression before his gaze moves down his body, and he's so damn satisfied with himself that James feels like Eric's approval means he's passing a test. This time Eric's hand curls around the back of James' neck, kneads him there, and James goes willingly into the kiss; it feels so good, Eric's hand massaging down his spine, then curving over his ass to yank him closer.

"Yeah," Eric says, near James' ear again but babbled coincidence this time, not seduction. Their erections slide together, and James holds himself up as best he can, watches Eric's stomach tense when James' hand finds his cock and rubs him, firmly. "Oh. _Yeah_."

_Yes_. It's been so long since he's done this. James doesn't want to close his eyes, but it's easier that way. He falls into feeling Eric's body, needing more than his eyes to map it. Skin charting heat, hands tracing skeleton and musculature, mouth memorizing the tang of sweat. Eric's hand matches and mirrors his, until they're stroking each other off. Eric jerks underneath him, hips lifting, and James slicks his thumb over the head of Eric's cock again and again, until he feel Eric's muscles stutter and freeze.

A moment later, Eric's fist tightens around James' erection, enough that James can let go and thrust into it. Eric's smug-solemn eyes never leave his face, like this is something only Eric can give him. James' rhythm draws out rubato, and his orgasm rushes at him and over him, pleasure tiding over his storm walls and gradually sliding back from his nerves, exhausted.

James' eyelids refuse to lift. He can feel the slickness of sweat at his temples, at the small of his back under Eric's spread fingers. His shoulders burn from holding himself up and over Eric, not letting his weight rest on him. This isn't meant to last. Finally rolling to one side, James licks his lips. The blare of music from the living room reasserts itself, turns into the only thing he can hear, an echoed heartbeat.

Eric's hand falls away, and he shifts, pulling up the corner of the sheet to wipe his stomach clean. James watches, strangely apart, though he can feel semen on his slowly softening dick. There are words he sometimes thinks about saying when he's with a guy like this, but it's easier to climb to his feet and reach for his pants than to say them.

He's tightening his shoe laces with a decisive tug before he can speak. "You understand if this doesn't--"

"Yeah," Eric says dismissively. He's still lying on the bed, his hands tucked behind his head, the sheet a messy twist that barely reaches above his hips. His eyes are gentle, and there's not a little pitying amusement in his expression as he watches James dress. "I know what it's like to have a girlfriend when I go home."

James moves for the door, the stairs, the air beyond the house; he moves into the night, his grin taking on a touch of Eric's smugness, and his step is light before he turns the corner at the end of the block.

 

_end_


End file.
